Gospel Story Finder

Champion Koruea Kaburara estimates that she and her husband assist about 100 people every month. She is very careful to help those she gives her seedlings to by providing instruction and supervision.
Sometimes she helps them by giving them soil or compost that she produces.
Koruea gives her tender plants to those who are serious about following through. “Many members come to me and so do people at my work and in my community. I feel like I want to help both. They are happy to get the plants.”
Koruea is able to feed her family and to generate some extra income through her skillful management. Her neighbours are grateful to be able to purchase the fresh vegetables from her. The creative system benefits all involved and can be sustained.

Before their children leave home for school each morning, the Layme Huallpa family has prayer together. It is María’s favorite family time. They pray for themselves and their neighbors, and for the animals when they are sick, that they will be strong and healthy. “At night when I pray and go to bed,” María said, “I feel Heavenly Father’s care and protection.”

As a child, I became less-active in the Church, but as a teenager I was considering coming back. Before making this important decision, I prayed and pondered what it would mean to come back to the Church and the responsibilities it would entail.
That is when I decided to read some old issues of the Liahona. I was reading to find stories that would encourage me and reinforce my desire to return to church.
Through reading articles about people who had experiences similar to mine, I received a lot of encouragement. Most of all, the articles helped me understand that nobody at church is perfect and that I have my faults as well and need to do something to correct them.
I have now come back to church. I realize that the meetings are like they were before, but now I have a more positive vision, partly due to ideas that I found in the Liahona about how to enjoy classes and sacrament meeting.
Every time I read the Liahona, I feel satisfied as I find answers to my questions.María Pilar Santana, Dominican Republic

Quentin L. Cook
(44) Vilate Kimball writes her husband about the “glorious doctrine” of baptism for the dead, as revealed by Joseph Smith.

Not long ago I woke up and prepared to study the scriptures. I picked up my smartphone and sat in a chair next to my bed with the intention of opening the Gospel Library app. I unlocked my phone and was just about to begin studying when I saw a half dozen notifications for text messages and emails that had come during the night. I thought, “I’ll quickly check those messages, and then I’ll get right to the scriptures.” Well, two hours later I was still reading text messages, emails, news briefs, and social media posts. When I realized what time it was, I frantically rushed to get ready for the day. That morning I missed my scripture study, and consequently I didn’t get the spiritual nourishment I was hoping for.

My mom and dad have taught me that it’s important to dress in clothes that are modest. When it was time to pick out a Halloween costume, I told my mom that I would choose a costume that was modest. I found one that I really liked, and it covered my body. I know that Heavenly Father is happy when I choose the right.

Elizabeth: I had an experience last summer that I think of when considering this question. I was in North Carolina shopping in a department store when a very pretty young lady came in dressed in a halter top and skimpy shorts. I didn’t think too much about it until I saw a young man looking at her in a very interested manner. It made me realize that although we may rationalize immodest dress by telling ourselves that we have clean minds and after all it is summer and we want to be fashionable, this won’t keep others from getting the wrong impression.

(102) President Monson ministers to a father whose daughter is ill.

Just before dusk on September 12, a party of missionaries returning from the British Mission arrived in camp. They were led by Elder Franklin D. Richards (1821–99) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, my wife’s great-great-grandfather. When Elder Richards and the others saw the difficulties of the handcart company, they promised to hurry on to the Salt Lake Valley and send back help as soon as possible.
When the Franklin D. Richards party reached Salt Lake City, they immediately reported to President Young the precarious condition of the immigrants. The Saints in the valley had not expected more immigrants until the following year, and news of their plight spread like wildfire.
Two days later, October 6, 1856, general conference was held in the Old Tabernacle. From the pulpit, President Young made the call for men, food, and supplies in mule- or horse-drawn wagons to leave the following day to render assistance.2

Among many very good deeds, Hilda was largely responsible for gathering the whole of Joe’s offspring as a family. In late 1952, Joe, Hilda, John, and I went to Southern Rhodesia, and siblings Gwen, Peter and Sue were taken out of the Fairbridge home, located near Bulawayo in the south, to join the rest of us now located in what was Salisbury, the capital. We were all together in the one home for a precious two years. Then, due to concerns about space in our three-bedroomed Rhodesia-Railways-provided house, Gwen left to live in a special establishment set up to house young single women.
Those years in colonial Rhodesia were wonderful, especially for John and me. As youngsters we lived a largely outdoor life, often running around barefoot and getting up to mischief, but mostly creatively (building platforms in trees; forming rowing boats from corrugated metal sheets — usually used for roofing purposes; fabricating catapults from carefully chosen branches of trees and rubber strips from old car-tyre inner tubes, and bows that we used to shoot arrows made from dried elephant grass with pins in their heads and chicken feathers as fletching). Hilda was always around to attend to our injuries, and provide as best she could for us, including repairing clothing.

We slept in the same room, and at bedtime we always played games. He would never just go to sleep. After Mom kissed us goodnight and shut the door, Hans would jump up, hold onto the rail of his crib, and begin to bounce. He would wave and yell at me until we both were laughing hard. I really liked sharing a bedroom with him, even if he was a baby.

Margaret McNeil Ballard recalled: “I walked every step of the way across the plains and drove a cow, and a large part of the way I carried my brother, James, on my back” (in I Walked to Zion, 126). Many of you also shoulder responsibilities for your siblings with love and strength.

The next day we went to the Sanchez home and asked Mirian to go with us to see Rosa’s family. To our surprise she didn’t want to go, offering a number of weak excuses for not being able to go. We could tell she was keeping something from us and asked her to tell us what was really wrong. She then proceeded to explain.

Rosa lived in the neighborhood where Mirian had lived before her father died, she told us. After his death, the people of the area began to spread rumors about Mirian’s mother.

“One night I had had enough so I went out to defend my mother and what I knew was right. Several of those in the neighborhood decided to give me a hard beating that I would never forget. They started to beat me, hitting me mostly in the face. This is how I lost all my teeth,” she said, pointing to her mouth.

After she had told us what happened, she seemed relieved and said she would go with us if we really wanted her to. We were impressed by her courage and agreed that she should come.

As I read about my ancestors, I learned that they apparently had the typical Kirschbaum trait of a quiet, good-natured disposition—except when aggravated. I read with amusement about a local notary who apparently played a mean trick on one of my ancestors. The man later found himself shut up in his own house by a cartload of “natural fertilizer” that was delivered to his doorstep by Herr Kirschbaum himself—the mayor.

It is not hard for me to remember when I was in college. I loved many things about college life: I loved learning. I loved the comradery. And I loved football.
I had always dreamed of playing football at the university level, and during my freshman, sophomore, and junior years, I wore a crimson uniform and played running back.
At that time, the world tottered on the brink of chaos. Opposing political forces roiled and ground against each other. Tension mushroomed. Nations chafed against each other. It was as though the entire world groaned in a burgeoning rumble, a volcano that had to erupt, that ultimately would erupt. Before it was over, every nation, every people felt the effects of those dark days.
I remember the day my father came to me. It was just after the 1936 football season had ended.
“Joseph,” he said, “do you want to go on a mission?”
I told him I did.
“Then you must go now,” he said. “If you wait any longer, you’ll never go.”
I didn’t want to believe him. I wanted to pursue my dream of continuing to play football and graduating from the university. If I were to accept a mission call, I would have to give up everything. In those days a mission call was 30 months long, and I knew if I accepted, there was a good chance I would never play football again—perhaps I would not even be able to graduate.
But I also knew what my father had said was true. My bishop was Marion G. Romney (1897–1988), who later became a member of the First Presidency of the Church. He had spoken with me before about serving a mission, and I went to tell him that now was the time.
A few months later I stepped aboard the SS Manhattan and began a long voyage that would take me into the heart of the world crisis. My mission call was to the German-Austrian Mission.
My first field of labor was in Salzburg, Austria. The mission was shorthanded, and not long after I arrived, my companion was transferred to another district in the mission. Soon I found myself alone in Salzburg, a young missionary in a strange, new country.
One other thing was happening that I haven’t mentioned: a large army of Hitler’s Third Reich was gathering just over the border, not 30 kilometers from Salzburg. Everywhere you went you could sense a mounting tension in the air. No one knew if tomorrow would be the day the panzer tanks would flood across the border.
I remember those days well. I don’t suppose there has been a time in my life when I felt more discouraged, more lost. The mission was a difficult one; no one seemed to have time for me or the message I brought. I wondered if there would ever be enough members in that city to make a ward.
Six weeks I was alone. Six weeks I waited for a companion. Six weeks I wondered about what I might be doing had I stayed in Salt Lake City and continued my studies.
Even though the days and nights seemed at the time to be never ending, they eventually passed. A senior companion arrived, and we did the best we could under the circumstances to serve the Lord.
That year as Christmas Day approached, my companion and I decided we would walk to Oberndorf, a little village nestled in the beautiful Bavarian Alps. You may know that the beauty and majesty of this little village are what inspired Joseph Mohr in 1818 to write the wonderful hymn “Silent Night” (Hymns, number 204).
On Christmas Eve we walked to the village and sat quietly for a while in a small, humble church, listening to the beautiful organ music. A crisp, clear winter night enveloped us as we began our return trip. We walked under a canopy of stars and across the smooth stillness of new-fallen snow. Perhaps it was a night not unlike the one that inspired an assistant priest to write the lyrics to one of the most beloved hymns in all of Christendom more than a hundred years earlier.
As we walked, my companion and I talked of our hopes and dreams. We talked of our goals and what we wanted to have happen in our lives. The more we talked, the more serious we became about achieving the things we talked about. As we walked under the light of a full moon, we both made serious resolutions.
I committed that night that I would not waste my time. I would renew my efforts to serve the Lord. I made up my mind that I would magnify any callings I received in the Lord’s kingdom.
That was also the evening I made up my mind about whom I would marry. I didn’t know her name, but I had in my mind the type of person she would be—one who lived the gospel and who was strong spiritually. I even described her to my companion—that she would be 1.65 meters tall, that she would have blue eyes, and that she would have blond hair. Sister Wirthlin fits all of the description that I made of her at that time without knowing her. And so that night was important to me.

Sometimes we forget to clean our rooms and make our beds. We decided to make our room spotless without telling Mom. She was so surprised!

In the April 2013 general conference, Edward Dube was called to be a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy, making him the first General Authority of the Church from Zimbabwe. This was only the most recent of many firsts for Elder Dube. He was also the first native stake president, first native mission president, and first native Area Seventy from Zimbabwe. Elder Dube has been a true pioneer of righteous leadership.
Before all that, however, there was another first for Elder Dube: his first day attending church. Two years before he went to church for the first time, he was given a Book of Mormon by a Latter-day Saint man for whom he was working. Elder Dube read the Book of Mormon and felt its influence and power.
In February 1984 Elder Dube accepted an invitation to attend a fast and testimony meeting at a local branch. He felt so nervous when he entered the chapel that he almost immediately turned around and walked back out.
Soon, however, Elder Dube’s feelings began to change once the branch president stood and bore testimony of the Book of Mormon. A testimony of the Book of Mormon was one area Elder Dube felt was common ground. He stood and shared his own thoughts and feelings of the Book of Mormon after several other members bore testimony.
Soon after that first sacrament meeting, Elder Dube began to investigate the Church in earnest. He was baptized several months later. He then served a full-time mission in the Zimbabwe Harare Mission. Elder Dube married Naume Keresia Salizani on December 9, 1989. They have four children.
Elder Dube has seen many ups and downs for the Saints in Zimbabwe as a result of political turmoil. Through it all, he has relied on the Lord for strength and guidance. “I look back on my life and I truly feel grateful,” he said. “The gospel has been everything in my life.”3
“To me, Elder Dube is a Brigham Young or Wilford Woodruff of Zimbabwe,” says President Keith R. Edwards, a former member of the Seventy who currently serves as president of the England Missionary Training Center. President Edwards was mission president of the Zimbabwe Harare Mission from 2000 to 2003 and worked extensively with Elder Dube, who was serving as stake president at the time. “Elder Dube just has a vision of what the gospel is supposed to do and how it is supposed to work.”4

After a heart attack and back surgery, he had to use one of these. He even spoke in general conference sitting down!

As a boy, I loved to run. When I was eleven years old, I won an Oregon state cross-country race and I vowed to become a national champion before I graduated from high school. Full of boldness, determined to be better than anyone else, I began a training routine that was to last for years. Every day I ran from five to sixteen kilometers. I loved training. Neither mud, rain, sweat, nor pain were to keep me from my goal. “You only get out of it what you put into it” became my motto.
I began to look ahead to running in the Junior Olympics. My plan was to prepare to race in the 1985 competition, when I would be fourteen years old, and again in 1987, when I would be sixteen. I calculated that these would be in my best years and I would be in my top running condition. What I didn’t calculate was that by 1985 I would grow from a skinny, lightweight boy, to a taller and heavier young man. My whole system had to catch up with the added dimensions of my growing body. My knees ached constantly; my feet and hips almost cried out in pain as I ran; and it was all I could do to win a state championship by a fraction of a second. I knew 1985 wasn’t the year to enter the Junior Olympics, but I would have two years to prepare myself for the 1987 event.
By the spring of 1987 I was running well. I was undefeated in the 1,500-meter run and praised by a local newspaper as the fastest high school freshman in the state of Oregon. My aches and pains had gone. I felt good and I knew I was ready for the Junior Olympics.
Meanwhile, three teammates and I had been invited to participate in a prestigious regional track meet. Full of confidence and in high spirits, we got into the team van with our coach for the ride to the meet.
As we drove onto the main highway, I noticed how congested the traffic was and subconsciously fastened my seat belt. We were all laughing and joking when I casually looked up and noticed a speeding car coming our way. Completely out of control, it began swerving back and forth in our traffic lane, barely avoiding several cars ahead. Stunned into silence, we helplessly watched the car head straight for us.
I awoke to the sounds of screaming sirens, two-way radios crackling, and shouting policemen. We had been hit head-on by a car driven by a wanted man in a stolen car who was being pursued by police in a high-speed chase. My teammate and good friend, Lenny, who was in the seat behind me without his seat belt on, had been thrown across my seat. I had been propelled forward and pinned under the weight of his unconscious body and my doubled-up seat.
I managed to move just enough to see out of the window. The other car looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Two ambulances drove in beside our crushed van, and I was quickly, but very carefully, lifted out of our wrecked vehicle. “I think this one has a broken back!” I heard one ambulance man say as he looked at me with pity and concern.
As miracles go, my back wasn’t broken—just my nose! However, serious back strain, several pulled muscles, and joint displacement prevented me from walking for a few days and kept me from running normally for several months. This had not been in my plan. I became discouraged as my training schedule for being in top condition was once again interrupted.
I continued to train, both with the high school team and with a running club my brothers and sisters and I belong to. As I watched my ten-year-old brother, Tyler, run, I began to feel more frustration and irritation. He ran strong and well. He could keep up with several of the high school runners and was getting better every week. As much as I loved him, I resented how easy it all seemed for him.
I watched Tyler win in a state track and field championship, defeating his nearest competition by 500 meters. A crowd of excited supporters gathered around him as I stood back. An incredible sense of pride built up inside me, and as Tyler looked past all the well-wishers, seeking my approval, the feeling of love was so intense between us that I felt we were the only two in the noisy stadium. As I sensed his deep need for my approval my resentment of his success totally left me. At that moment, I vowed that my little brother would go to the national championships prepared with all the knowledge I could share and with the assurance of my support.
We ran together after that. I talked about form and strategy, how to pass other runners and maintain a lead. We ran up hills to build his endurance, sprinted on the track to build his speed, and made up all sorts of exercises to improve his reflexes. We talked about racing as we did chores around the house, as we ate breakfast, as we drove into town, and as we watched sports news on television. We ran in pouring rain and sweltering heat.
Tyler and I both placed first in our age categories in the Northwest Regional Championships, and that gave us the chance to compete in the national championships. Because of the accident and the interruption of my training, I thought I might only place in the top twenty-five runners. My race was first, and I was twenty-first out of 300 and gained a national ranking.
Satisfied and happy with my performance, I then turned my attention to Tyler. I had already taken him through the cross-country course, showing him how to approach and hurdle a deep ditch, when to stride out, where to save his strength, what to avoid, and how to stay mentally tough. He wa ready! As we looked for his starting place among the other 265 runners on the starting line, I felt as nervous as when I had lined up for my own race. Tyler was tense, and I just kept assuring him that he was the best. I could sense his apprehension as if it were my own. How I wished I could transform his pain to joy! “Be tough, Tyler. Just remember, no one is better than you. No one can beat you,” I said. My arm slipped around his slumping shoulder, and I felt like I was deserting a desperate man when I walked away and noticed the tears in his eyes.
I watched him run a perfect race as I ran from place to place on the course to cheer him on, hoping he could feel my support reaching out to him. Could he hear? Could he sense my strength reaching out to him? He came toward the last stretch of the race in second place. “Keep going, Tyler!” I yelled. “Use your arms! Breathe deeply!” If he could just feel what I felt for him in that crowd of 5,000 wildly screaming spectators.
He was turning the corner for the last 100 meters—a part of the course we had run over and over together as we planned this moment. “Now Tyler! Give it all you’ve got left! Come on!” I pleaded. My voice choked as I thrilled at the sight of my little brother, a picture of perfect health, striding down the homestretch to a spectacular finish to become the national champion I had planned to be.
My pride in him told me that I had won something too. I realized I had given part of myself away to help Tyler succeed, and it created a feeling within me far richer and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. As an exhausted Tyler broke away from the crowd and came to me, he gasped out the words which taught me the lesson of my life.
“Jason, I felt terrible—but I could hear you cheering the whole way, over the noise of all the people, and I knew I could win. I knew I had to win!”
What other lessons would this little champion learn from me—good or bad?
What about all our other brothers and sisters in the family of men. What messages do they hear above the crowd? Just as Tyler could hear and respond to that call to win, how many others need that voice in the crowd? How often do we get caught up in our own plans and fail to call out our encouragement, fail to cheer others on to victory?
As Tyler and I embraced, I truly knew the meaning of the words, “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him” (1 Jn. 2:10).

Starting off the day with a prayer improves my motivation and reminds me that through Jesus Christ I can do all things, even when I feel overwhelmed. Putting visual aids around the house also really helps me remember the spiritual things I need to do each day but often forget about. I like to write my daily goals where I will see them, like on my mirror or phone. Often I will set alarms on my phone or enter calendar reminders to say my prayers or complete certain tasks for the day, and I won’t go to bed until I’ve done them. When I’m feeling too tired or want to relax, I tell myself I can take a break and do something else after I’ve completed my tasks. By not procrastinating, I feel less stressed and am able to enjoy my day more.
Abbee C., Georgia, USA